Revival
by CognacGirl-CG
Summary: They said he was lucky to be alive. Lucky? Maybe. After all, he did get the opportunity to see the sun rise and fall. Alive? Good question. He wondered if he really was. Will Allison (1 of 1)


**Fto Title:** Revival   
**Author:** CG  
**Feedback:** Would love to hear what you have to say. If criticism, please make it constructive.   
**Disclaimer:** Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone, and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot productions.   
**Spoilers:** A tiny bit of speculation, but no true spoilers that I know of. Post The Telling, pre Succession.   
**Summary:** They said he was lucky to be alive. Lucky? Maybe. After all, he did get the opportunity to see the sun rise and fall. Alive? Good question. He wondered if he really was.   
**Ship:** Will/Allison  
**Rating:** R–for language and adult situations.  
**Classification:** Angst with a dollop of smut. (Why does Will _always make me write him angsty?)  
**Distribution:** Cover Me. All others please ask._

A/N – Thanks to **Waterdancer**, **Fawkes**, **Steph**, and **carmen_sandiego** for all of the help throughout this. It's always much appreciated! I had problems with the italics so information being read will show up between **. 

Dead on the inside I've got nothing to prove. Keep me alive and give me something to lose. ~ Comeback by Foo Fighters

Dejected and desolate.

He had a telecommuting job so simple it bored him straight into the early hours of the evening, a simple one bedroom apartment plain in its décor–purposely giving the best impression of a temporary existence–and a basic model sedan, light tan and bare boned in style, that sat mostly unused in his covered parking spot. Each morning he woke to the same routine and surroundings, alone. But at least he woke. That fact was a reminder of what might have been. 

In his pocket he had a shiny leather money clip moderately filled with bills, in his cabinets and fridge an overfill of food, and a living room filled with a brand new state of the art entertainment center and top quality leather furniture. Material things for all to see although he knew the room would see little entertaining or company. 

He had everything a person could want. He lived comfortably. He was miserable. 

Lucky and alive.

The doctors said that he was lucky to be alive. He was told by the CIA that the fire, which could have been his end, was started after he had been stabbed; after he remembered waking up in the bathtub and trying to call out for help, only to have the darkness reach out and grab him back in. 

When he woke up safely within the hospital and inquired about how he'd gotten there, he had been told that he was listed as the only survivor in a blaze so searing that all belongings inside were disintegrated. Remains found had included one of his best friends for certain, and a second trace of DNA that pointed to the person who–in the blink of an eye–had become his worst enemy.

What puzzled him and everyone who he spoke with once he'd come to was how he had managed to get from his prone position–bleeding, bruised and most of all unconscious–out the front door and cleared far enough from the house to be safe before it went up in flames. 

Lucky? Maybe. After all, he thought as he idly browsed through the meat section of the local supermarket in 'Smalltown U.S.A.', he did get the opportunity to see the sun rise and fall, to feel the cold chill of winter with its down-comforter sized blanket of snow, and of course to interact with a crowd of last minute Thanksgiving grocery shoppers, elbowing and shoving for the last turkey and the leftover trimmings. 

Alive? Good question. He looked around at the people in his circumference–Mom's keeping their children in tow, college students who couldn't go home for the long weekend laughing with each other as they found dinner substitutes that cooked in the microwave, the occasional couple stealing glances and touches when they thought no one was looking–and, not for the first time in the past two years, wondered if he really was. 

He knew his heart beat, knew his blood flowed in a continuous cycle, felt the pain–physical and emotional–that went along with his injuries. All of those were given signs of life. Along with them were even the scars on his body to prove that he lived. But alive? 

This was his second Thanksgiving alone. True, his family life had never been wonderful, but he'd always found it refreshing to spend time with his sister, Amy. His friends had been the best back-ups for those holidays when time was better not spent with family. A much needed break when times were bad. And he always made a point to reciprocate the gestures, giving his shoulder to cry or lean on if needed. 

But now he had no one. No family to crack jokes about, to share any joys that maybe had tumbled into his life. No friends to speak of, both of his closest ones now dead. Even if they were alive it was moot, they wouldn't be able to visit nor would they barely recognize him today. 

Hidden and safe. 

_"Your new identity and specifics about your background are in here." _

Jack Bristow had slid the manila envelope across the seat of the unmarked van to Will Tippin. He remembered the emotions he had seen in the older man's eyes. The torment that had filled Jack's persona. The red, his eyes and his anger, and the weariness that had consumed him. And that faint hint of underlying "rage soon to erupt" in his movements. The image of Jack's cool front deteriorating bit by bit in the days that had followed the fire stayed with him to this very day. The events of that night had been hard for them all. 

Hours later had brought a new city and a new look. His hair darker than Will Tippin would have ever worn it, perfect vision now after laser surgery, and eyes as dark as his last love's hair. He was told that he should tan regularly to keep up the appearance that fit the nationality of his last name now. He had done everything that Jack Bristow had suggested before dropping him off. 

He sometimes wondered what had ever become of Jack Bristow, in all his terseness and complexity. Wondered what had happened to everyone in the CIA that Will Tippin used to converse with. Wondered if they ever thought of the man who used to be Will Tippin. 

He wondered, but knew the only thing all of that wondering accomplished was nothing. 

The ride home from the market was the same timed five-minute trip. Two stoplights, a few turns, entering the security code for the private garage and then he was home. His first steps into his building assaulted him with the smell of the pending holiday. Sugar and spice. He smiled faintly, sadly, remembering one holiday in his past with Amy and a dinner of Tofurkey and dry sweet potatoes. 

There would be no more large holidays with family, friends, kids. These days the holidays were mostly ready-made food, easy to nuke or bake dishes for the man who no longer found the kitchen a place he wanted to spend large amounts of time in. 

_"If you stick to the outline before you, you should be safe."_

But there were no guarantees. The parting words from Jack Bristow were missing the catch at the end that nothing was a sure bet, and at that time Will Tippin had known it. Even the best hider could eventually be found and… 

Shifting the two brown bags to one hip, he unlocked his deadbolt and doorknob then stepped inside. He took an automatic deep breath as he locked both locks behind him, feeling the tension of being out in the open release with the air from his lungs. _Safe again._

A quick mandatory once over in the barely lit front room of his apartment showed the usual: Everything was in its place. Both bags finally resting on the counter, he continued his precautionary venture around his apartment until he remembered the ice cream. 

"Shit," he whispered as the thought of eating soupy ice cream sidetracked him. The rest of the groceries followed, all put in their respective places. Minutes later he uncorked a bottle of wine, grabbed both a glass and the bottle, and tiredly plopped himself down on a stool at the bar.  

The red liquid swirled around the rounded bottom, then filled the entire cup. The sight was drool worthy, and the perfect ending to another not so perfect day in his second life. 

"Salut," he toasted to nobody, using one of the catchy Italian phrases he'd grown accustomed to using in recent years. He despondently added an extra well wish before downing the glass in its entirety, "And Godspeed to those who are still alive, kicking, and living life to the fullest."

He laughed mirthlessly, knowing full well he wasn't on that list. 

He gave up on the glass after his third drink, the bottle doing the same job for him. Gave up on dinner too, even though the liquor swimming in his stomach made him feel a little queasy. He thought of his real family, thought of Francie and her beauty, strength, and most of all the love and concern she had always shown to her friends. Thought of Sydney and her bravery in trying to keep everyone around her safe, and finally gave up on thinking as well. It broke his heart again as every thought would lead to what both women had probably gone through before they'd died. 

"It should have been me," he mused aloud, another swig cascading down his throat.

"You didn't have the right–equipment for the job," he jumped out of his seat at the voice calling out from the darkened hallway that led to his bedroom. The bottle of wine slipped from his grasp, spilling the red wine in a thick puddle on his white carpet. 

The gun. No, a knife. The phone. His heart hammered in its cage, choking him as he tried to breathe. She stalked slowly out of the darkness–black fitted suit complimenting her dark skin. As he furiously contemplated his options, the muted light of his lamp revealed the outline of her body shape, and when she stepped closer he viewed the features of a ghost. 

_She's alive? _

There was no telltale expression on her face when she emerged completely out of the shadows, he noticed as he began to feel even more light headed. The sardonic smirk he imagined would be displayed in this situation didn't come into play, the soft, understanding curl of the mouth that would have been the antithesis not present. Just blankness, the look adding a sense of sincerity that matched the tone of her voice when she had spoken. 

His throat dried beyond the feel of sandpaper, choking him as he tried to swallow his nervousness. In the top drawer to his left, in a hidden compartment, lay a two-way pager and a gun, if only he could get to them. 

"Don't," she held up a hand, looking earnestly into his eyes. "Please. I'm not here to hurt you."

He laughed, a tinge of fear mixing in with the small amount of humor he scraped up. His momentary bout of sobriety began to wane as his adrenaline pumped. "And this time I'm just supposed to believe you?"

She briefly glanced down as if the memory of the thin hard blade sliding into his soft skin pained her as much as it did him. "I suppose not." When she looked back up at him it was with that same emptiness, "It isn't easy for me to be here."

"Easy for _you_?" he balked, inching around the corner of the breakfast bar. Still he was too far away to reach what he needed. "_No_body was supposed to be able to find–this is…this is…_God_!" he looked around desperately, fighting the urge to scream or cross the room in two strides to beat the shit out of this woman. The person who had stolen so much from his life. 

"Insane," she finished for him, her voice striking horribly familiar chords in his head. _Francie. _Lord how he missed anything–everything–from that life. 

His first of many mistakes was taking a moment to really looking at her, seeing the face that had just begun to star in Will Tippin's fantasies two years ago. Chords struck acutely at his heart, too. His hand absently rubbed his chest to soothe the area. 

"You look well, Anthony DiMarco." 

The use of his current full name caused his hand to still on his chest. How? He had followed the rules. He was supposed to be safe. Exhaling a worried breath, he lifted the now heavy hand to swipe through his dark cropped hair. 

"Lonely, but well," she added while taking a quick look around his apartment. 

"Unbelievable!" he cried out incredulously. "You of all people have no right to speculate about how my life is."

"You're right, I don't." She shrugged, taking one tentative step closer to him, still keeping her face wiped clean of emotion. "I wouldn't have come here if it wasn't important." 

"Important? What on earth could you have to say to me that would be considered important?"

"Here." From behind her back she withdrew a large manila envelope and tossed it in his direction. "I needed to see that you received this information personally."

The envelope landed just beyond the crimson stain on the carpet. Squatting down to still keep her within his sight, he reached for and opened the packet. 

"As you said, you have no reason to believe me, which is why I included–in extensive detail–everything that you need to know. I'm afraid I've got too much on my plate right now and can no longer be of help to you." 

She turned and started walking towards the front door. Looking from the stack of papers to her retreat, he called out to her. "Help to me? I don't understand."

A glance over her shoulder showed the first emotion–a thoughtful smile–on her face. "I know you don't, but once you've read everything you'll have a better idea." He didn't remember sitting, but suddenly the stool was supporting him again as the doorknob turned under her grasp. "About that last day," she paused and cleared her throat. "For what it's worth, I didn't want to…I mean I had no…" 

He waited for her to continue, wanting the answer to one of the many questions that had plagued him, but the rest ended up unsaid as she shook her head and closed the door behind her. She left him dumfounded in a pile of paperwork and glossy photos, a burgundy stain soaking into his pristine carpet, an expanding pain in his chest where his heart beat, and nerves so frazzled he could barely keep down his liquor.

Choices.

He never made it to the hidden compartment in his kitchen drawer. Decided both the gun and the pager were unnecessary. If she didn't harm him on first sight, it was unlikely she would return to do the job. But even if she did, he found that he really didn't care. 

He sat solemnly at his breakfast bar, holding a full shot glass of tequila, trying to keep his focus on the facts that were laid out before him and not on the ominous woman who had dropped the intimate details of his life over the past two years in his lap just over an hour ago. But, unfortunately, the two went hand in hand. 

                                                                        **

On the fifth day of surveillance, subject was pronounced well enough for travel. Forty-eight hours after his release from the hospital, subject was transported to Scarsdale, NY. Was pronounced secure three hours after arriving at place of residence.

                                                                        **

His third shot of the golden liquid burned much less than the first two, smoothly coating his throat with much needed warmth. Not long after he started reading the contents she'd left, he broke out an aging bottle of liquor, which he found helped the endless quaking in his hands. 

He first read about his daily routines of the first few months in the program; his infrequent trips to the market, a few tentative short walks to help calm his nerves, the rest of the time secluded behind a locked door. He examined a few candid photos of himself starting out as Anthony DiMarco, adjusting to his darker appearance and read more of the intel that had been gathered on dates not too far back. His fear still swirled like continual lopsided circles in his gut. 

                                                                        **

A year and a half after subject entered program, first bits of information of his whereabouts were leaked and picked up by Echelon. Details regarding the leak were consequently relayed to Ms. Doren. Two days following the discovery, all parties involved in discussion were eliminated at her instruction. 

                                                                        **

The fourth and fifth shots were a welcome addition to the swell of warmth in him. Not only did they impair his ability to read, each shot marred his perception of reality. He was no longer Anthony DiMarco, the dark, mysterious loner/insurance adjuster who worked from home; he was Will Tippin again, ex-reporter, ex-CIA analyst, ex-participant in any sort of real life. Wounded inside beyond repair after having lived through two of his intended deaths. 

And Will Tippin had a hard time believing that the liquor wasn't causing him to see the familiar handwriting and the even more familiar memories in his hazy sight. He read it twice the sight was so unreal. In between private information on Anthony DiMarco, he had an excerpt from Francie's journal.  

                                                                        **

I believe I've hit the strangest transition in my life. I never thought it possible, but I think I'm falling for my best friend. No, I know I have. Strange, no? Last night, in the middle of steamed lobster, I wanted nothing more than to kiss Will. The thought came so unannounced that I almost immediately threw it aside. I mean, this is Will—one of my best guy friends. Yet there was just something there. Our eyes met, and something passed behind his–I'm guessing it was close to the same thing that I was feeling. Right then I knew that that was also Will and his passion was aimed at me. What a revelation!  Moments later we were kissing and I knew I had fallen for him–my best friend. 

                                                                        **

Tears wet his face, an endless stream warping his vision further. That day had played on repeat for so long after he'd found out his Francie had been done away with an unknown amount of months before. He used to wonder about when exactly that had happened, when his Francie ended and the new one began. As he flipped to the next page, not seeing another journal entry as he had hoped, the answer he longed for sat in bold numbers and a too brief explanation. 

                                                                        **

Dated 01/26/03 – Operation Phase One completed. Target Francine Calfo disposed of and her replacement successfully in place. 

                                                                        **

Six shots down and he had not one care for the world. The pang he should have felt over knowing the date of Francie's death didn't come. He had no feelings of further despair, no more anger than he'd felt over the years, just an alcohol induced, body consuming numbness–with the smallest almost unnoticeable tinge of relief of another question answered. 

He was almost through the stack of paperwork by then, a quarter of the way through the fifth of tequila, and each sentence became that much harder to read. His stomach should have ached, he should have had to run to the bathroom to rid himself of some of his liquor, but he was completely entranced and his curiosity forced himself to trudge on. 

He read through more journal entries, all dated post the date of Francie's death. Most were filled with small incidences at work, a few remarks about the relationship that had sparked between Sydney and Michael Vaughn, and small mention of her overall fears and concerns in life. All were meticulously worded and read to reflect Francie's light and carefree personality, but strangely, no further mention of Will. He clumsily poured his eighth shot as he reached the last entry, dated two days before the house fire. 

                                                                        **

I didn't expect to feel this extent of emotion every time he is near me, every time he touches me. I wasn't supposed to feel any. Keep him at a distance was all that was drilled into my head, by others and by myself. Too close is a mistake, I know this, and yet I still can't stop the palpitation of my heart when he wraps his welcoming arms around me, nor cease feeling relief every time he smiles so reassuringly at me after a long day. I can't pinpoint exactly when things changed, which moment with him sparked something hidden inside me, the only thing that matters is that the change has taken place. 

He's physically attractive; I knew that from first glance, but physical attraction had never been the end all for me. Everything he is–kind, loyal, trustworthy, caring about those he loves to a point of fault–was never anything that I had considered worthy of attention. Never anything I had considered for myself. But he made me want to have it–even if just for the short moment in time I have. 

I don't deserve it, not from him, not after what I've done to get here. In secret I already have what it is that I deserve, what a different part of me wants–has wanted for as long as I can remember. It's a hard living, filled with power, secrets, betrayal, revenge, lies, and so much passion sometimes I can hardly breathe. And I never have once questioned if I'm wanted in return. Still the life, and the man in it, isn't normal, isn't safe, won't be there for you at the end of every bad day to make sure you're okay. All things that I never dreamed a person like me would want. 

I've made choices in this life, choices that for the most part reflected how I was raised and the need that was driven into me to strive and be the best. And I'm still doing my best, still thinking on my feet. I live on the defensive; just waiting for the day that I'll need to face my latest life choice. Waiting for the day that will force me to make that one decision that will break me. I have a feeling that that day is coming soon. 

I've never had regrets about those choices that I've made, never thought twice about how I ended up here. But what's he's unknowingly done to and for me over the past few months etched a small, private spot in my heart. And for that I want to say thank you and give my apology for what I've done and for what I will likely have to do. 

I am sorry. 

                                                                        **

He sat in shock as paper fell from his hands. Truths that he never wanted to know or ever thought possible drifted from side to side as the sheet of paper floated down and finally landed on the floor just beyond the wine soaked towel covering his carpet. She's sorry, he thought and snorted at how ridiculous this all was. Shakily he poured a last shot, his mind too far gone to question her motives for writing those words, and slammed it home. 

The sound of his shot glass falling from his grip and cracking on his kitchen tile was the last he remembered before everything went black. 

Fantasy and reality. 

The warm arms that were securely wrapped around his chest from behind gave him a sense of security and comfort, immediately informing him that he was dreaming. Human touch was like a foreign object in his life behind closed doors, only coming into play by accident: a brush of contact passing someone on the street, the occasional handshake the few times he'd had to meet with his employers, or late at night as he lay unconscious to the world, dreaming of the past or what might have been. 

His body felt heavy, drugged, and the first sense of something being awry entered his semi-consciousness. He tried to see through the darkness, realizing after a minute that he needed to open his eyes first. They felt weighted, too, just like his body. He felt the floor sliding under his feet, the snapping friction from the carpet rubbing against his socks making his feet unusually warm. He saw specks of light through his lids, dull and blurry, and had to blink a few times before he gained any clarity. 

He watched as the front room of his apartment seemed to be getting smaller, the table he last remembered sitting at seeming to grow farther and farther away from him. When he saw his hallway walls around him, bringing with them darkness, he panicked, gasping at the realization of arms under his armpits dragging him away. It slapped him awake to a sort of drunken awareness, and he hoped that would be enough to let him rationalize the direness of his situation. He squirmed in the arms pulling him, needing to get away.

"Stop moving, I'm only trying to get you into your bed."

Liquor tainted blood momentarily made him forget the now, and he relaxed in her arms, knowing the calm of Francie's voice and trusting her to do as she promised and to make him feel safe again. He saw the breakfast bar swim out of his vision as darkness began to take him over once more. 

"Thank you," he whispered as he drifted off.

He had no concept of time, but he woke again to a soft hand lightly slapping his face, and that same comforting voice. "That's it. Open your eyes." 

After forcing his eyes to open then focus, he tried to speak out to her, but the pain of dryness coated his throat and his effort produced no sound. "Here," she started as he struggled to sit up. "Drink some water." 

Her hand moved under his neck, carefully assisting him in sitting up against the headboard. For some reason that he couldn't remember right away, he felt a safety that he hadn't experienced in some time, just having her familiar face mere inches away. He made to smile in thanks when she removed her hand, but the subtle differences in her appearance were perplexing. Shorter hair layered around her neck, straight with the slightest curl at the ends, a weight loss apparent in her cheekbones, and a look in her eyes that didn't carry that familiar warmth. 

As the water went down and he glanced around to recognize the belongings of Anthony DiMarco, his memory resurfaced, speeding up his heartbeat. Fear washed over his face and her eyes reacted to it by shifting away uncomfortably.  

"What did you do to me?" he mumbled, bringing a hand to his spinning head as he rested back against the headboard. 

She sat level with his hip and had to lean closer to him in order to return the glass to his nightstand. "You drank almost half a bottle of wine and close to the same amount of tequila and you ask what I did to you?" 

Stale liquor formed a thick, rotten taste in his mouth and the memory of shot after shot of the liquid rushed forward. Along with those memories were memories of the envelope, of Francie. Of this woman before him, her knowledge of Anthony DiMarco's life and her emotional testimony put down on paper. He had so many questions earlier, knew somewhere in his jumbled mind he should find them and ask her, but only one came to mind. 

"Why?"

The corner of her mouth curled up as she contemplated the vague inquiry, a first sign of her cold resolve fading. "That's a loaded question with many different answers. Most of them you might not understand." She reached for the glass to offer it back to him. "I will let you know that I only came back tonight because of the dropped shot glass and the following thud, which was your body hitting the ground."

"How did you know?" he slurred as his eyes fluttered again. 

Her answer was a blank stare, and the word bugged was the last thought he remembered having until he felt the mattress shift near his hip. He came to again while he was in mid sentence, not knowing how the conversation strayed to the last day of his hospital stay and how he barely remembered accepting the terms of his joining the Witness Protection Program. 

She stood up and his reaction shocked them both. "Don't go," he whispered as he carefully wrapped his hand around her wrist. "Please."

Her eyes cautiously glanced down at the contrast of his light toned hand around her dark skin, but she made no objection. His hand slid down further to grip her hand, and he pulled her back to sit. 

He could see the varied degree of emotion in her eyes, a flash of uneasiness mixed with a swelling heat from his touch. Her reaction revved up warmth in him that had little to do with his drunkenness. 

"I was," she started, but had to clear her throat in order to continue. "You were starting to sound hoarse, so I was going to get you some more water."

Their fingers entwined so easily that he didn't give it a second thought. All he could do was look into her eyes and see his own confusion and curiosity right there on her face. 

He didn't know how much time had lapsed or remember the route his hand took to its destination, but somehow he was cupping her face, the softness of her cheek feeling so right under his palm. His thumb started to trace small circles over her cheekbone when she leaned into him. 

"I miss her," he whispered absently as he drew her face near. 

"I know." Her eyes flicked nervously to his lips, which parted right before she whispered back into his mouth, "I don't know about this." 

"Neither do I," he answered, feeling her neck stiffen in resistance to their mouths joining. He lifted his head to close the distance between them, capturing her lips with his. 

She tasted so sweet, so familiar even though so much time had passed. As her tongue swept over his lip and entered his mouth, he surrendered to this necessity he had to feel, to remember a life he'd been trying so hard to forget. 

It could have been seconds, but more likely minutes passed before he realized that her bare chest–bra on but his hands fitting snugly inside the cups–was pressed so tightly against him. Or noticed her hands diligently tousling his hair and then moving south to caress his own bare chest. He could have sworn that he'd had a shirt on before, but had no immediate recollection of where or when it disappeared. 

As he lay beneath her in the midst of a passion built on lips that were both tender and forceful, bodies grinding together to heighten arousal, he tried to sober up enough to question his actions. What the hell did he think he was doing? He cupped his hands around her face to put a few incheó between them, feeling her heart beat just as frantically against his chest as his did hers, the need to breathe only apparent as their lips separated. 

His chest rose and fell spasmodically as he searched her heavy lidded eyes in the darkened room. He wanted to say something to her that would explain how he felt, a summation of the range of emotions carousing through him, but the problem was that he couldn't find the words. He didn't know what to feel about the familiar stranger and what it meant that she could produce such a surge of need in him. 

"This is so wrong," she licked her lips as she breathed on his swollen lips. "But I don't want to stop."

All thought was lost as excitement replaced any mode of thinking. Her lips were just close enough that all he needed to do was speak and they touched. 

"Then don't stop," he suggested, and then brought them together again.  

Cool hands wrapping around his arousal jolted him back to the moment. She lay beneath him now, bra gone, pants tossed aside somewhere in the room, and worked her hand down his unzipped pants. He knew that he was losing moments of time, but didn't care. His body felt everything his memory lost, and what his body wanted ended up being his ultimate guide. 

Her breasts temporarily distracted him from her persuasive hand, two full mounds just asking for a taste. He covered one with his mouth, loving the way the tautness of her nipples rasped against his tongue. She cried out beneath him as his teeth clamped over the dark top, causing him to do the same when her hand's natural reflex to squeeze him harder shot pure desire up to his gut. 

"Oh God," he whispered as he reclaimed her mouth. 

Tight heat, so hot and so delicious, enveloped him unknown moments later. Small tingles of pleasure built on top of one another causing a near and immediate overload as he pushed himself impossibly deep inside of her. He had to stop once he was fully engulfed, and took the opportunity to take a look at her. 

Eyes closed, body arched to receive him, lips parted as she sighed. The sight was painfully beautiful. He took a mental picture of this moment, took inventory of the way her body yielded to him and how much elation he felt knowing that he was the cause of it. 

She reached up to touch his face with a confusing concern in her eyes. "You okay?" she choked out and then groaned as he answered her by pulling out and then sliding so incredibly slowly back in. 

Time kept on disappearing and he soon found himself on his back looking up her curvaceous body still joined with his, breasts pert and supple under his hands, her lids partially closed, eyes dark as onyx. Her hips found that perfect rhythm to ride to, taking his breath away. 

"Allison," he whispered affectionately, watching her lean down and drop her mouth to kiss his neck.   

His hands caressed down and behind her body, settling on the small of her back giving gentle pushes to add urgency to the pace of her motion above him. He didn't want it to end, wished he could stay feeling exactly this way longer than two of his lifetimes, but the hot breath that kept panting in his ear proved to be the start of his inevitable end. 

"Will," she breathed shakily and so quietly in his ear. "Oh God, Will."

"I know," he bit out between clenched teeth, dangling off the cliff to oblivion by his fingernails. 

Closing his eyes he met her gyrating hips with his own thrusts and she pushed herself to sit up, back arching, head dropped back, reveling in the rush of sensations piling higher and higher each time he hit just the right spot. 

When her body stilled above him and her wet heat convulsed around him, he saw the first waves of lights behind his eyes. They shined, twinkled in hues of yellow, blue, and red, pulsating with each burst he made into her. And just like one of his nine lives, it ended.

A numbing feeling filled his body as the lights behind his eyes grew dimmer, and he felt himself slowly fading away. The last thing he recalled was the feel of her sweaty body collapsing on to his, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered the final words of the night.

"I'm sorry."

Living.

It wasn't light that streamed through his consciousness, but the low mumbling of a private conversation that roused him. Although quiet, he heard hints of venom in the voice that spoke. "Of course they accepted our terms for the exchange. Don't tell me that's the only reason you're disturbing me."

Silence followed the clipped statements, and he felt the bed moving next to him. Using just one eye, he quickly peeked at his surroundings, seeing the dark gray just before the break of dawn gradually revealing the room to the naked eye. Knowing anyone else would see as little as he did, he adjusted both eyes to his room and carefully turned his head to the side of the bed that was occupied. He saw the outline of her sitting on the edge of his mattress though his blurry eyes, noticing the jerky movements she made while she put her clothes back on. 

"No," she continued. "I won't be going there to assist in his retrieval. It's too risky." 

She looked over her shoulder in the darkness, and with his eyes already closed again, he forced his breathing to stay even and his body to keep still. The sound of a pants zipping rang out in the quiet right before she stood, then placed her suit jacket back on. 

"We'll discuss this further when I get back."

He heard the snap of her phone, but for the last time his body succumbed to the fatigue of the alcohol, of the euphoria that only human touch in the most intimate sense could bring. He lost himself to a dead sleep and didn't even hear her leave. 

The gray of the late morning light burned his eyes as he woke. His nude body under his thin sheet was the only reminder he needed to bring memories of last night back in a fierce rush. Her dark skin shimmering in the light of the moon, her lips leaving soft marks over his body, his lips remembering the most intimate of her places. His utter confusion and shock over what he'd done. 

He rubbed his aching face with stiff hands, still smelling her scent in the room and on him, wishing away the mortification that he was beginning to feel. He had been compromised, his safety in jeopardy, and the only thing that he had wanted to do was drink himself stupid. This wasn't a game he was playing. People who would love to know where he was didn't just wave and smile when they found people like him. His lack of concern whether or not he died ate at him as he sat up, dropping his feet to the cold floor.  

He had thought that he didn't care whether he lived or died, but the close call he allowed himself to carelessly go through snapped reality into him like a whip in the back. 

He didn't want to die. 

His first course of action was a quick text message, sent to his contact. Short, sweet, and cryptic. A new name, look, and life generated by some impersonal computer. He didn't need to pack his things, didn't have any personal belongings to take with him that he particularly cared for. Or so he thought. 

After showering and dressing just like any other day, he reached for his watch–one of the only things that transferred over from his previous life–and found a thin tan book embossed with pink and dark brown flowers laying next to it. His heart skipped a beat as he read the writing on the cover. 

'The journal of Francine D. Calfo.' 

A folded yellow piece of paper was in front of the first entry. Removing it, he immediately recognized more of Francie's handwriting underneath. His eyes glanced back to the note, and he discovered his shame surprisingly lessened after reading the words. 

                                                                        **

Life does go on, but it's your choice whether you live that life to the extent that it's supposed to be lived, or choose to stay in the background, in fear of forging new attachments. Pain will always be a factor. It's just a reminder that we're not invincible, that life doesn't last forever and we need to hold those dear to us that much closer. 

She would want you live your life. Really live it. 

                                                                        **

He smiled through his tears, and through the pain of closure. She was right. As much as it hurt to admit he'd needed her last night. He also needed to read the words that she had written, and wouldn't cower from giving her credit. 

Allison Doren may have almost killed him once under obligation of her job, but years later she also dragged him back to the land of the living–by her own will.  


End file.
